


Renegade

by Kinthinia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinthinia/pseuds/Kinthinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see, when you get locked up, you still think you did the right thing. There aren't newspapers or televisions provided where you can watch the media crucify you –although Clint highly doubted any media outlet knew what had become of Hawkeye, Falcon, Scarlet Witch and Ant Man. It was easy to forget when you were locked up in the middle of the ocean, twenty thousand feet below surface, that you were the bad guy. Once upon a very long time ago, Clint had been a mercenary. He had been on the wrong side of the law. He knew what to expect. He'd just forgotten in the last twenty years or so, exactly what it felt like. The baton driving into his chest and the boot to his face brought the memories back with startling clarity though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanted Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evlytheevilqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evlytheevilqueen/gifts).



> Title and chapter titles taken from the song Renegade by Styx.

Clint hummed under his breath, eyes shut and hands behind his head. He could hear Scott start to pick up the beat, tapping on his stool. Wanda hadn't said anything in hours or days. He'd tried getting her to talk, but she wasn't. Damn Tony for putting them in a place like this. For putting her here, and damn the government for getting them in this mess. Sam hadn't said much since Tony had shown up –but Clint had heard him having a panic attack afterwards. Clint glanced over when he registered movement at the cell bars, a guard walking by, baton smacking against the bars, a warning. Clint sat up, measuring the guard's movements, singing louder. It wasn't like he was planning an escape. That would be impossible, even for the most bastardly of prisoners held here. But he couldn't help it. He wanted a reaction. He wanted a fight.

The Raft was the place where they kept the worst of the worst cooped up. The Abomination was stored here, for Christ's sake. What did that say about them? They hadn't killed anyone. They hadn't murdered or stolen anything. Standing against the government, standing for what was right was what got them here? Clint glared at the wall, belting out the lyrics. He wasn't going to stop. They'd have to make him. And if they made him –if they did something like that, well, he wasn't sure what next. Because if they used force to make him comply, they were no better than Hydra. They were no better than any other low-level scum out there. The baton slammed against the bars more firmly and Clint definitely caught a glare that time around.

"Hangman is comin' down from the gallows and I don't have very long," he sang hoarsely, watching in satisfaction as the guard clamped his hands over his ears. "The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me, the renegade who had it made. Retrieved for a bounty."

Sam was tapping his foot in time to the beat. Scott was still tapping out the beat on his stool. Clint cleared his throat and went to sing the chorus. The guard slammed his baton against the metal bars and Clint's cell was opened. Clint managed a cheeky grin.

"Hey piggy piggy, want to play?"

Clint wasn't a bad guy. Clint was an unarmed prisoner. The guard was wearing full out SWAT gear, including a body shield. Even if Clint had a projectile what would it do against that? And what was the guard going to do in a place with three other witnesses?

"Shut your mouth Barton, or I will shut it for you," growled the guard.

Clint smirked, dark and dangerous and unforgiving. "I'd like to see you try."

The guard shook his head and advanced into his cell. Clint heard Sam's outraged shout, but by then it was too late. Clint wasn't about to go down without a fight. He swung wide, intentionally missing the guard entirely. He was wondering who was under the helmet –some punk ass kid or somebody that had been on the job for fifteen years when the baton slammed into his gut and drove the air out of his lungs. He dropped like a sack, moving to protect his head on instinct, curling up to protect his ribs. But the guard knew what he was doing. He hit non-lethally. Clint struck out with his foot, driving it against the guard's knee before he was leaping to his feet. But the cameras were on and no one cared. Criminals deserved to be beaten, to be roughed up.

The Taser came from the ceiling and struck him in the middle of the back before he was even fully standing. He collapsed, limbs spasming and twitching involuntarily, leaving him defenseless. Two quick kicks to his side and Clint couldn't see straight anymore. When the toe of the guard's boot swung out and caught him in the side of the head, everything went black.

Clint wasn't sure how much later it was when consciousness returned, but he was lying on the floor of his cell and his ears were ringing. He got up onto his knees and wobbled precariously, throwing his arm out to catch himself as he stood up. The world seemed to spin and he let himself fall rather than fight against it. He could just see Sam watching in concern from his cell but he couldn't bring himself to respond. He laid back down and willed his stomach to stop trying to upend its contents.

It would be days before the ringing stopped and the nausea settled.


	2. Don't Let Them Take Me

He should have known what it meant sooner. But it had been so long since he'd been some helpless kid getting knocked around by his old man. He was pretty sure he was deaf. It was hard to say considering Sam and Scott weren't the most talkative and even if they were, Clint could hardly see their lips from this angle. And if they had been speaking and he couldn't hear them and couldn't see their lips to tell, well. That just made it hard to know. The guards didn't care –he'd tried shouting at them, tried to ask for medical attention but they might have sound proofed his room. They didn't acknowledge him no matter how loud he shouted. He could only wait by his food slot, which was all electronically controlled. There was a gate, they would insert the tray, close their gate and then they would hit a button to send the tray down a miniature conveyor belt to his room. He would wait there and try and shout at them, try and ask for help but they didn't acknowledge him.

Day three after the ringing quit, he was getting desperate. He attempted his rusty ASL skills, taking a closed fist and pressing it against an open palm, repeating the words help as he signed it. They sent a doctor down and gassed his room with a sedative before they performed an examination that confirmed the issue for Clint. He was deaf. But he couldn't string two words together to answer their inane questions because he couldn't think and he could only read every third or fourth word on their lips. He passed out afterwards because it was easier.

They held classes to keep them entertained and involved in the intervening days. Clint hated arts and crafts day the most because they would hand out slimy putty that never hardened and none of the instructors seemed to appreciate Clint spelling words using them. He tried using the putty to escape but to no one's surprise it didn't work. Maybe if Tony was in here with them, they could have made it work. In the end, he made putty and toilet paper creations to liven up his cell when it was apparent no one cared about his deafness. They were in solitary confinement for the rest of their days, that much Clint knew.

Ross would never let them out. And if he put them with the rest of the guys in here? They'd be dead. Deader than dead dead. For the first time in his life, Clint had never been more grateful to be so unattached to his friends. Barney was somewhere in the Caribbean with the neighbour woman and her kids; Kate was who-knows-where with his dog but they were safe there. If they never heard from him again, that would be okay. Kate would mourn. Kate might burn the world to the ground trying to find him, but they'd parted on bad terms. It was just as likely for Kate to move on and do something with her life, something for herself. Provided Tony's damn slip-up didn't screw them all to hell.

_"You're all grown up. You've got a family. I don't understand why you didn't think about them before you chose the wrong side?"_

He'd done so much to keep Barney off the radar, to keep Kate in the clear. And Tony had blown it all to hell. See if he ever invited anyone to his super-secret farm again. Kate had been hiding out there, something to do with America and Billy ganging up on her when Clint brought the Avengers in. Kate had never been involved in S.H.I.E.L.D. or any other government agency. She was more on the vigilante side of things, but she did good work for a kid. He kept them off the files, but some files you couldn't hide forever. And Ross was going to want every advantage available to break what few Avengers remained standing. Clint would love to see Ross try and take him on at this point, considering he was deaf. It would be fun to pick on the man, see how long it took him to realize Clint wasn't faking an injury, that Clint couldn't cooperate until he had medical attention.

Day six, they brought in Cassie Lang. Nobody blamed Scott when he folded, when he told them what little he knew which wasn't much. Clint hadn't known the guy, had given him the basics. Cap needed his help, needed to hold Iron Man off because there were a bunch of Russian assassins attempting to take over the world and Iron Man was trying to be the will of the government. Scott joined up just that easy. Clint explained that it meant they would be working outside of the law. Scott insisted he didn't care. Clint never thought they'd do this. Cassie was scared and confused, even Clint could tell that much, and Scott folded like a leaf. But he didn't know where Steve had gone and Clint could tell that the guards didn't like it.

They must have caught Scott that night and Clint slept through it without hearing a thing because the next time he could see Scott, Scott's face was a swollen mass of bruises that not even he could have done to himself. The Raft was meant to contain the worst of the worst. The guards here weren't trained to be kind, to be forgiving, to care about what crime their prisoners had committed. They were trained and chosen for their ruthlessness, their efficiency and their lack of empathy. In another world, they were criminals waiting to be sent here. But in this one they got to get their jollies off by poking lions, by beating up defenseless prisoners. Clint had never minded before. It was easy to turn your head. Especially when the people holed up in the Raft had included Brock Rumlow, Emil Blonsky, Curt Connors, John Steele, and John Falsworth.

Clint started singing again, even if he couldn't hear himself, just to give him something to do. The next night, the guards came for him instead.


	3. They've Finally Found Me

Clint woke up to a baton slamming down against his ribs. He'd be lucky if they didn't break anything and he rolled out of his bed, onto the hard floor which would do nothing to ease any damage to his ribs as he curled up to protect his head. They kicked. They wore combat boots, it hurt. If Clint cried out in pain, he was oblivious to it. It hurt. Everything hurt. He couldn't hear anything. But he was talking, trying to talk, egg them on, beg them to stop. They didn't listen and he bit down on his tongue, tasting blood before he passed out. They didn't take him to medical.

He woke up in the morning on the floor of his cell, his body screaming in pain. He couldn't hear very well. He made an effort to give a thumbs up gesture just in case Scott or Sam happened to look over. He hobbled back to his bed and collapsed onto it with a sharp moan of pain. He hurt. He pulled his flimsy pillow over his head and tried to fall asleep, just to make the pain go away for a little bit. He woke to someone ripping the pillow off his face and he jerked upright, throwing a punch that was knocked aside by a gloved hand. A guard loomed nearby. The man in the white coat talked to him very seriously, gesturing at the pillow and then at Clint expectantly. Clint blinked exhaustedly, unable to even concentrate on watching the doctor's lips. He could hear every third word or so, maybe. He caught words like "dangerous" and "choking hazard" and what looked like "penguins in a zoo" but that probably wasn't right. The doctor took his pillow with him after he made a lot more complicated hand gestures and concerned expression. The guard behind him smirked. They took his blankets too.

He didn't eat that day or the next. He was too tired to get out of bed and they sent the same doctor in to check on him with a biomedical scanner so the doctor wouldn't go into the cell. A precaution, Clint supposed, just in case a prisoner was faking and intending to use the doctor as a hostage or something. His vitals must have read as fine because they left. He closed his eyes and went right back to sleep. He didn't even have the energy to get up and check on Scott or Sam but he hoped Sam was okay. He hoped Wanda was okay too. But everything hurt too badly for him to tell. He managed to grab his food, to eat half his measly portion, crouched on his cell floor. It was cold chicken noodle soup.

He slept curled up on his bed, shaking from the cold which only made everything hurt worse. His head felt fine, but he definitely couldn't hear anything out of his left ear. And his right was sensitive and sore when he touched it, but he could only hear a little bit of noise from it. Really loud things –like when he yelled or screamed, that he could hear. It felt a little like he was going crazy. He wanted to hear again. Just to hear Sam or Scott or Wanda. He needed to know that they were okay. He leaned against his cell bars and waited, but he didn't see any of them for the rest of the day. Maybe they were in similar shape to him. He wouldn't blame them for not keeping an eye on him if they were hurt too. His heart hammered in his chest –if they'd hurt Wanda, if they'd done anything to that innocent kid…

His eyes snapped open and he sat up, shoving a hand away that was reaching for him. He was off his bed, in a defensive position before he even registered that it was Cap standing at his cell entrance, a stricken expression on his face. Clint squared his shoulders and stood up straight. He must either look pretty rough, or Cap was getting ready to break some bad news to him. Outside, he could see Sam was releasing Scott. Wanda's cell was already open. He scanned the room and found her hovering behind Steve, the straight jacket disposed of and the collar torn off her neck. He could see the harsh white imprint of it on her skin though. He walked around Steve, towards her, offering her a hand. Her eyes welled with tears and she threw her arms around him. He'd brought her into this damn mess. He patted her back, tried to softly reassure her, but he wasn't sure how loud he was.

Steve wasn't in his uniform and he didn't have his shield with him. He was dressed in a casual black blazer and dark pants, not a scratch on him. He was talking to all of them, but his focus was on Clint in particular. He gestured to his ear, patting it with his finger, and must have repeated the same word three or four times before Clint recognized "shield" and "ear piece" and "escape." He didn't know what Steve was trying to say, but he grabbed two guns from the disarmed guards and followed Steve out of their cell corridor. They made it to the central command, where every guard was unconscious and disarmed and Clint stared in shock at the kid with curly brown hair who was at the controls. He was wearing S.H.I.E.L.D. gear and his face was vaguely familiar. Fitz. His name was Fitz, he was one of a pair of scientists.

Steve shoved a cord into Clint's hands and he grabbed onto it automatically, snapping the clip to his waist as he was pulled up and out of the Raft into a waiting aircraft. A familiar red Corvette came into view, as did a number of agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. gear. He knew there was a new S.H.I.E.L.D. springing up, but he'd always assumed it had been led by some fanatical like Koenig or somebody. Instead, it was Melinda May's face he saw first. Beside her was a junior agent, short brown hair, big doe eyes. She was too young for this life, but he could see in the set of her shoulders and the hard jut of her chin that nothing and nobody could take her away from here. And then, as he set down on the floor, he unclipped his cord and turned to come face to face with Phil Coulson.

Phil smiled nervously, soft and gentle. His mouth opened and closed. His lips formed words. Clint could only stare at him helplessly. Slowly, like it had been a lifetime ago, Clint raised his hands and finger-spelled one of the few words he could remember.

d – e –a –f

Coulson's eyes went wide and he reached out a hand towards Clint, signing doctor. Clint shook his head stubbornly and turned back, waiting until Wanda was safe on board before agreeing to go with his old handler. Every so often Phil would glance back at him, but he didn't try to say anything. Clint was honestly glad. He didn't know where Phil had been for the last few years, but he was really uninterested in whatever story it was. He should have guessed, and maybe he kind of had, when he heard whispers about S.H.I.E.L.D. reforming that Phil had been behind it. Nick, after all, wasn't even dead. He went to the medical bay obediently and sat down for the doctor like a good patient. Phil followed him in, casting a questioning look in his direction. Clint flapped his hand at him, the universal sign for 'stay.'

He didn't want to be alone.

He was afraid of what he might do, if he was left to his own devices.

Phil leaned against the wall like there was nothing in this universe that would ever make him move.

For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, Clint let himself breath. His reward? A sharp pain in his chest and side. The doctor looked concerned and Clint must have made some kind of noise but he didn't have the faintest clue as to whether he whimpered or screamed. He hoped it hadn't been a scream because the pain really wasn't that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a very, very long two weeks. Has it been that long? I don't even know anymore. It's blurred together. Anyways, this was originally going to be two chapters but it makes more sense to keep it as one whole. The prompt will be filled -eventually! :) 
> 
> Also, yay Phil!


	4. Law Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are approaching the point that I promised to write for Ally as this was born of her prompt and desire for something fluffy. It's coming. Slowly but surely.

The next month blurred together. They mostly focused on a series of lessons on sign language with Phil and the remaining Avengers attending too. Following that, they shoved him into therapy. He knew Wanda, Scott and Sam all had to go too, and they were supposed to do group therapy but it was hard when no one could look the other in the eye. Mostly, he went to his individual sessions and then escaped into the air vent above Phil's office when group therapy happened. Scott got released first and was the first of their small tortured prisoner crew who got the go-ahead to return to the States. Despite being a wanted criminal, Scott was determined to head home to his family. Sam got the next clean bill of health but he wasn't leaving Steve's side.

Once Scott was gone and it was clear Clint and Wanda would need more help than what the S.H.I.E.L.D. psych team could manage, Steve made the executive decision to return to Wakanda. Wanda needed all the medical attention possible. She hadn't spoken since her rescue and Clint wasn't exactly in a position to talk to her. The quacks hadn't been able to give him a real promising estimate on hearing aids, so he was stuck stumbling around. And in the moments where he wasn't hidden in the air vents or stuck in therapy, Steve seemed to have made it his personal mission to apologize. Every chance he got. But the thing was, Clint didn't need his apology. When he'd started this whole mess, he'd understood the consequences. Granted, the Raft wasn't entirely expected, but it boiled down to the same thing. So he brushed Steve's apologies off and made jokes and poked at and goaded the man until Steve actually left him alone.

Which, funny enough, didn't make him feel all that better about himself.

And when they landed in Wakanda, he and Wanda were both ferried away by Wakandan ministers and doctors to private suits where the doors weren't locked and psychotherapists were waiting. That was such a Phil move. After one intense therapy session that lasted close to six hours –half of that time had been spent waiting for the translator to sign out his words –they moved Clint into an art therapy session with Wanda. Wanda actually gave him a shy smile and there was color back in her cheeks, although she was still wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, she looked miles better than he'd seen her recently.

He used employed his best arts and crafts skills to the plethora of supplies he had ready. He recreated the Avengers Tower and proceeded to crush it with a Tony Stark figurine (okay, sue him, it was a red and orange playdoh blob –they hadn't provided him with toys) and then he gently lay the crushed armor on top. At the bottom, he attached playdoh figurines of the good guys. He was purple, Natasha was black with a red up-do, Steve was –Steve was, well, an accident. Steve was a misshapen glob of red-white-and-blue, his hand linking him to the black and silver blob that represented Bucky. His therapist seemed delighted at his 'progress' so he moved onto the clay and paints.

"Just do whatever you feel comfortable doing," she'd said brightly. "Be it as cathartic as saving yourself or as simple as a thank you note for a friend."

With the clay, he clumsily molded it into a vaguely car-shaped blob before putting it in the kiln and moving on to finding the exact shade of red he would need. By the time he was done his thank you gift, it was a bright red mess with two misshapen figures making out in the front seat. At the end of the session, he gathered his art therapy and snuck it into Phil's room, setting it on his desk. Phil had promised that he would stay until he knew everyone was safe after all. He spread out the art work proudly, arranging it on Phil's desk before he climbed back into the air vent and escaped from the Wakandan facility they'd placed him in.

He took a deep breath, inhaling salt-humid air before releasing his breath. His ribs didn't hurt anymore. He wasn't all better either, but he was worlds away from where he had just been.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is going to be a short multi-chaptered story based on the prompt from evlytheevilqueen regarding Clint making Phil a trash statue similar to what happened in the movie Wall-E. 
> 
> I realize this sounds irrelevant right now, given the context, and that this is nothing like what anyone was expecting it to be. But it'll get there. It will.


End file.
